The Prince and the Potter
by Riko
Summary: A tale of war, politics and destiny. School is only incidental. (Slash.)


A/N: Wow. A new story. Who would've thought? Although, this is more a teaser than anything else, and I'm a little nervous about how it sounds so far. Mmm... Anyway... 

I'd like to apologize for all the names I going to have to make up; JK didn't really give me much to work with by way of Slytherin. None of them are going to be really important, think of them as the supporting cast only.

Lastly, if you've come here from reading Mani a warning: if you're looking for the random silliness or characterization I use in that story this is not the story you are looking for. This is going to be dark, political and odd; it is going to focus on Draco and Harry only (and they are a different Draco and Harry than Mani's); it will still have humour, but only 'cause I can't effin' help it. Still, it's a story so it's meant to be enjoyable. Give it a try!

Oh, yeah. It's slashy. Harry/Draco and all… Enjoy. :)

  
  
  


The Prince and the Potter

  


by Morgan Rowe… (who still owns nothing.)

  


++ waiting ++

"There's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface   
Consuming, confusing   
This lack of self control I fear is never ending   
Controlling"

- "Crawling," Linkin Park

  


The library, unlike most its age and size, is spotless. More a drawing room than a library, really, with a long, mahogany coffee table, polished to perfection and a platoon of decorative chairs with fancy embroidered cushions.

Every chair has an occupant, some men, and some women, of all ages and height and weights. They are all the same sickly pale colour, though; the colour of people who spend more time indoors than is really healthy. Each one is decked in heavy layers of dark cloth, glittering with jewellery here and real silver lining there.

At the head of the table sits a man. He's in his late thirties, likely, but his hair is already snow white, dripping down his back in cascades. His black robes are of the highest quality with a complex array of silver clasps around his neck. He is obviously the host of this little get together.

Next to him is his wife, pale beyond belief, chatting with another woman and gesturing with a wineglass.

"The school system's gone to pot these days," announces one of the men with the bushy moustaches. "Can't you do something about it, Malfoy?"

The host, one Lucius Malfoy by name and "The Devil" by reputation, laughs in his throat. It's a cold sound, devoid of even the remnants of humour. "I think you over estimate my influence in the Ministry."

"Modesty doesn't become you," says a dark, rangy man with hollow cheeks, "You've put Fudge in your pocket, surely you can do something."

"What makes you think I haven't already, Parkinson?"

"Don't play with us Lucius," Parkinson's wife snaps, rolling her dark eyes, "have you or haven't you?"

Lucius sighs and places his empty glass on the table. "I have made… _suggestions_. We all know Dumbledore will ignore them regardless of what the Ministry orders."

"Maybe we should do something about Dumbledore, then," suggests another man.

Lucius rubs his smooth chin and shakes his head. "That would not be judicious at this juncture. We are all," he makes a gesture, taking in everyone in the room, "under close surveillance. To appear anything less than supportive of Dumbledore and his do-gooders would be akin to signing our own death warrants."

"So what do we do?" asks the woman sitting next to Narcissa.

"All we can do, I expect," Narcissa leans towards her husband and breathes a kiss onto his cheek. "We've already promised Draco we'll withdraw him should Hogwarts remain unsatisfactory by Christmas."

That causes a stir.

"What?"

"Are you serious?"

"You'll actually take him out of school?"

Narcissa scoffs, "I see no reason not to. He's already beyond everyone else there."

The parents of other Hogwarts students clear their throats and shift, but no one contradicts her.

"Besides," Lucius says smoothly, "I think he would benefit more from the tutelage I can give."

The proverbial feathers unruffle and the knickers untwist as the tension generated by Narcissa's boast dissolve. Some of the men laugh.

"Grooming Draco to take over the 'Family Business'?" Parkinson asks.

"Grooming?" Lucius' lips curve into a dangerous half-smile. "It has surpassed grooming. Keep your eyes open; you'll see what he's capable of."

--

Above the library is a bedroom. In size the two rooms are nearly identical, but the bedroom is even more grandly furnished than the room below.

Into one wall a fireplace is carved, and the flames lick their way up the chimney. A silver gilded grid keeps the fire at bay, protecting the room, furniture and inhabitant. A thick green and black carpet covers the middle of the floor; the weave of the carpet is fine and tight; likely it was made by the Manor's house-elves or possibly child labourers in Columbia.

On the high four-poster bed lies an open suitcase, abandoned in mid-pack by its owner.

Draco Malfoy, owner of both the room and the suitcase, should be packing. Tomorrow he leaves for his fifth year at Hogwarts, but for the moment he is half-curled at the head of the bed, his thin form drowning in pillows.

He's got a notebook on his lap, the standard ringed, three-holed kind, open to a blank, lined sheet. But it is not blank for long, he dips his quill into a pot of ink on the bedside table and begins to scribble, sucking vampirically on his lower lip.

If one were to look over his shoulder right now, the paper would look a little like this:

Tot. Pop.

Present - 6,233,821,945

Wiz. Pop.

30, 499, 223

30, 769, 734

31, 081, 954

Present - 31,902,268 

Mud. Pop.

29, 293, 445

100, 392, 289

500, 233, 129

Present - 1,045,845,226

Not good!! (This is underlined twice.)

X Mud. = Inbreeding

Not good!! (He underlines this three times and toys briefly with the idea of adding a third exclamation mark but finally decides against it.)

Need Mud. Solution: integration? Assimilation? Extermination??

Mug.

Over pop. Repro. too much.

PM = git

Means: control? Fear? Trick? Extermin.?

Nature/nurture?

If nurture --> cont. Mug. = cont. Mud. = VICTORY

How cont. Mug.? Think about this! 

Not entirely satisfied but momentarily blocked, Draco lies back and rubs his forehead with a hand. Even he doesn't entirely understand what he's just written; all he knows is the answer to the last question dictates where he moves next.

One of Draco's prize possessions is a chessboard. It's actually Muggle-made from green and white marble. Draco's never learned to play chess; he considers it to be a bad strategy game. The pieces move forward, never backward. They never run away from a fight. They never make deals under the table. They never trick, cheat, double-cross, spy, revolt or _anything!_ All in all, Draco considers it a very un-human game.

He uses his board for a very different purpose. More like a scoreboard, really: us vs. them. And, of course, he's black. He holds no delusions about which side of the moral boundary God would place him on.

Draco swings his legs over the edge of his bed and walks over to the board. He picks up a pawn and twirls it in his fingers. Were he a general, this would be his army, but Draco is no general. He is a manipulator, and these are, quite literally, his pawns. Draco places the pawn back on its square and returns to what he should've been doing: packing.

He's not quite ready to make his move yet, but it won't be long. For an instant Christmas seems too far away, but then Draco smiles. 

When Christmas comes, the world will stand up and take notice.

--

At the same time, in the Southwest of London, which might as well be a different planet for all the difference it makes, another boy lies stretched out on his bed. His name is Harry Potter, although half the time he thinks he should change his name to Robert Glink and go hide somewhere in Siberia, just to get away from this damn world that seems bent on eating him alive.

It's been two months since Cedric died. Two months since the opening move in a war that never ended in the first place. Two months and Harry is still waiting for the axe to drop, right on his head likely.

And he _hates_ it. He would almost prefer Voldemort to come storming down Privet Drive and blow up his house. At least that would be the end and not some stupid… limbo. 

Harry flips over on his bed so he can stare out the window. His black hair falls in front of his glasses, and he doesn't bother to brush it away. He watches as a tree branch scrap back and forth against his window. Blowing in the wind, the tree branch doesn't want to move, but the wind won't let it be.

Something is going to happen this year; how could it not? The war's turned from hot to cold. Everyone knows it. Well, everyone except the Muggles, thank the Ministry for that.

Harry thinks about Ron and Hermione. Are they all right? Would Voldemort try to get to Harry through them? Probably not, but it still makes Harry worry. He wants to protect them, but he can't. Anyone standing near him is likely to be killed in the blast. When it finally comes.

It occurs to Harry, not for the first time, that none of this would've happened if he weren't a wizard. If he'd never heard of Hogwarts, he could've gone on in his miserable life with the Dursleys until he'd gained enough money, age and education to get away. He'd never have dragged Hermione and Ron in to the whole mess that is his life; he'd never have killed Cedric. Bloody hands are not something a fifteen-year-old should have to deal with.

For an inexplicable moment, Harry wonders how Malfoy deals with it. Surely the son of the world's foremost Death-eater has killed before. His hands can't possibly cleaner than Harry's, can they?

Harry sighs. The only thing that keeps him from running is the thought that things would be much worse if he hadn't been.

__

We've had fifteen years thanks to me. Fifteen years to prepare should be enough. It has to be.

Except Harry knows.

The other side's had fifteen years too.

--

It's mid-morning, and Platform 9 3/4 is a chaotic mess. First years are crying and hugging their parents. Second years and third years are greeting their friends and laughing. The fourth years are a little calmer, talking in hushed voice and glancing with worry at their seniors. Everyone else looks like death.

You can see it written on their faces plain as day. They've got fear in their eyes and little sounds make them jump.

Harry leans on a pillar near the entrance, his arms crossed and his eyes half closed. The others pretend he isn't there. Cho can't bring herself look him in the eye.

"Harry!" Ron's voice splits through the crowd, and a moment later he and Hermione are standing at Harry's elbow.

Harry opens his eyes and forces a smile. "Hey Ron, Hermione, have a good summer?"

Ron makes a so-so movement with his hand and shrugs. "Ok I guess. Dad's been running ragged all summer, and he hasn't been much fun to be around."

"Rightly so." Hermione nods.

"I guess," Ron says again. "Everyone's been flipping out. Waiting for You-Know-Who to do something's really wearing everybody down."

Hermione peers at Harry. "How was _your_ summer, Harry?"

"Normal," Harry answers. "Is it just my imagination or are people avoiding me?"

Ron and Hermione look over their shoulders and think. 

Finally, Hermione says, "It's not just your imagination. But… can you really blame them?"

"No," Harry shakes his head and means it to. "No one wants to be collateral damage."

Hermione frowns. "That's not what I meant."

"It should've been."

Hermione and Ron share a brief worried look. Harry's beginning to recognize that look; it's the 'uh-oh, he's in one of _those_ moods' look.

"Listen, Harry, we're your friends, and we're, y'know, here for you." Ron says warily. "If you, ah, need to tell us something, we'll understand."

"Kill someone Ron," Harry mutters, "then you'll understand."

Hermione opens her mouth to protest, but someone crashes into her from behind, and she falls forward. Out of heroic habit, Harry reaches forward and catches her, but a second later she's out of his arms and rounding on her assailant.

"How dare y- Malfoy?"

Draco blinks once. "Ah, Granger. You should really watch were your standing."

Hermione turns red and Ron joins the fray. "Malfoy! I would've thought they'd ship you and your whole family off to Azkaban over the summer."

Draco's not really paying attention; he's peering through the crowd like he's looking for someone. At this, though, he flicks his eyes to Ron and grins. "Oh please Weasley. Your father's been trying to catch us for years. What makes you think he'd succeed now?"

"I saw your father," Harry blurts suddenly. Draco's eyes finally fall on him, and Harry feels the temperature of the room rise ten degrees. "In June. When Voldemort rose. That's why they could succeed now."

Draco's eyes narrow and his face darkens angrily for a second, but just for a second because then he relaxes and laughs. "Really? Well that was stupid of him. Look, I'm sorry Potter, Weasley, Granger, I'd love to stay and… whatever… but I have things to attend to." He nods and disappears in the throng of students.

"What the hell was that?" Harry asks, startled out of his bad mood.

Ron stares. "Maybe Malfoy got dropped on his head over the summer. Repeatedly."

Hermione looks aghast. "Did he actually _apologize_?"

"You're… right. He did." Ron scratches his head. "Never mind my earlier theory. That wasn't Malfoy. Maybe he's been replaced by some weird alien-zombie-thing."

"A weird, polite alien-zombie-thing?" Hermione smiles. "Maybe he's trying to trick us into trusting him."

Harry continues to stare into the crowd where Draco disappeared. "Or maybe," he says softly, "he knows something we don't."

Hermione sobers. "Yes. Maybe that."

  
  



End file.
